Till sat stiffly at the noisy dinner table, surrounded by Ivan’s loud teammates celebrating their win. His washed-out teal hair hung over his eyes, shielding the hurt when one of Ivan’s friends sneered at his eyeliner and worn band tee. The insult cut deeper than Till expected, and he shrank inward, silent and small.

Ivan leaned in, voice just loud enough for the others, teasing but sharp: “Why are you so fucking delicate?” The words stung more than he meant, and laughter followed, making Till’s heart sink further.

Without a word, Till pushed back from the table and slipped away, desperate for quiet.

Thirty minutes later, Till sank into lukewarm bathwater, the dim bathroom light casting soft shadows over his pale skin and damp teal hair. The earlier hurt still clung to him like a weight, making the warm water feel cool against his skin.

The door creaked open quietly. Ivan stepped inside, carrying a tray with Till’s favorite snacks and a steaming cup of black coffee. He settled on the cold tile beside the tub, eyes searching Till’s face for a sign.

“I’m sorry,” Ivan said softly, voice low and sincere. “I didn’t mean to hurt you tonight. I was caught up with my friends and forgot how it felt for you.”

Till said nothing at first, just accepted the coffee. Ivan reached out gently, brushing a wet strand of hair from Till’s face—a quiet promise to do better.